


Neighbors

by BowleggedNerd



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bookstores, Dean Plays Guitar, Dirty Talk, Dogs, F/M, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Mechanic Dean, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Music, Neighbors, Oral Sex, Sappy, Slow Build, Tattoos, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wingman Sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 22:33:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6396688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BowleggedNerd/pseuds/BowleggedNerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You needed a fresh start, plain and simple; the memories of home ached and haunted you. Moving from Delaware to Kansas was the most drastic thing you could think of, so that's what you did. You needed new air to breathe and new things to see. What you never anticipated upon moving out the mid-west was your neighbor, the dreamy Dean Winchester. While part of you hoped he could help pick up the pieces, another was afraid of being put back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neighbors

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, y'all! Honestly, this fic is really just me indulging in some alternate-universe/fantasy I've constructed in my mind in hopes of escaping my seemingly stationary existence and living vicariously through the characters of a fictitious world. The reader or "you" character of this story only contains hints of me here and there, but nothing too serious. I only hope that you, as a reader, can place yourself in this character's shoes and allow yourself the chance to experience a fictional, metaphorical rebirth, and to have sexytimes with Dean because, let's be honest, this wouldn't be my work without a little smut. ;-)
> 
> I'm not sure how long this fic will be. I often start things and leave them for months on end, but part of me NEEDS to get this story out, so here's to future completion!
> 
> Comments and feedback are greatly appreciated. Enjoy!
> 
> Sincerely,  
> Your fave Dean trash

Today was the day: Saturday, move-in day.

You didn't know why you decided to move to Kansas, you just knew you had to get the hell out of Dodge if you were to have any chance at happiness. It's not that you didn't love Delaware, you just couldn't bear to stay there anymore, not after...

No. You weren't going to think about it. That was the whole point of moving to Kansas; to forget.

So, why Kansas? Part of you knew it was because its geography reminded you of Delaware, but you couldn't help yourself from having some sense of familiarity. It was flat, full of farmland, but it was landlocked, which was something you'd never experienced. Living in the center of the continental U.S. made Kansas just different enough despite its slight resemblance to the First State.

It took you about a month to finalize the purchase of your new home there in Lawrence, and it was honestly the longest month of your life. This was your first time seeing the house in person, and thank God the pictures on the Internet did it justice. How shitty would it have been to go all the way out there to find the house was a dump?

1441 Blossom Drive. Home.

It was a quaint, little place on the outskirts of town. Sure, you wanted a change, but skyscrapers and city life were never your style, so rural Lawrence would do just fine.

The houses on your street were comfortably close together but thankfully not over top of each other. Your place back in Delaware had acres of land to itself, so this was something new. You pulled into the driveway in your fully-loaded car and exhaled a sigh of relief. You were finally there.

The house was red with white accents and framing and a black-shingled roof. It had two bedrooms and one-and-a-half baths with a tiny deck in the back that branched off of the living room. Just cozy enough for one person.

You smiled at the house as if it were your saving grace, which - in reality - it was. You killed the ignition and exited your black 2016 Chevy Impala (another effort to change your life), eager to get the things from your car into the house. Luckily, you had a moving company drop off all the furniture a few days prior, so most of the things in your car were dishes, decor, clothes, and other random stuff.

As you rounded your popped trunk so you could get started hauling things in, a warm, deep voice sounded.

"Nice car."

"Fuck!" You jumped, hitting your head on your trunk before whirling around to greet the voice. You brought your hand to the back of your head as you looked into a pair of concerned, green eyes and... whoa. Six feet of flannel and denim-wrapped handsome. Wow, way to be smooth, you cursed yourself. "You scared the shit out of me."

"Sorry," the beautiful man laughed. "I'm Dean," he said, holding out his hand.

"Y/N," you replied, using your free hand to return the handshake, and you most definitely didn't think about how big, warm and firm Dean's hand felt. Nope.

"I live in the white house next door," he released your hand to point in its direction, and continued with a dazzling smile that could probably literally melt hearts under prolonged exposure. "Figured I'd introduce myself and lend you some help. That a guitar?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's a Martin and uh, that would be great. Thank you."

"Nice. I play a little, too, and it's no problem. I'm just glad to see someone moving in here since Miss Missouri passed," he said as he effortlessly lifted a heavy box of dishes from the trunk.

"Um, are you tellin' me I'm moving into a haunted house? The realtor never mentioned that little tidbit."

Dean threw his head back in a hearty laugh. "Haha, no. She used to live here a year or so ago, yeah, but she died at the hospital. No ghosts, I swear."

You both walked up the steps to the front door, boxes in hand, placing yours down to unlock it. "Well, that's a relief," you replied and gestured for him to enter.

It looked just as it did on the website: hardwood floors, white walls, and an open floor plan, aside from the small hallway containing the bedrooms and bathrooms.

"I guess the realtor didn't appreciate Missouri's love for color too much," Dean said as he placed the box down in the kitchen and eyed the blank walls.

"Realtors don't know how to have any fun. I don't know too many people who have an affinity for eggshell white," you stated as you looked around the space before the two of you walked back outside to carry in more things.

"So, you plan on painting then?" Dean asked with a tiny hint of what sounded like admiration in his voice.

"Mhm. I actually planned on going to Lowe's after I unloaded everything to look through some swatches."

Dean acknowledged you with a nod. You emptied the rest of your car in silence as you were both focused on getting things inside quickly. When the last trip was made, Dean casually leaned against a stack of boxes.

"I guess that about does it," he smiled at you.

"I guess it does," you smiled back and leaned against your own stack of boxes. "Thanks again for the help."

"Like I said, no problem. If you ever need anything else, you know where to find me," he nodded his head in the direction of his house and gave you a wink, which your heart most certainly didn't flutter at.

"Okay," you smiled and attempted to hide your blush to no avail. You both walked outside, you toward your car and him toward his own house. "It was nice meeting you, Dean," you called after him before sliding into the driver's seat.

"Ditto, Y/N!"

•••

It was dark out by the time you arrived back at your place, car full of various colors of paint and other supplies. You smiled over at Dean's house as you thought about how helpful he was.

As you carried the paint in, you couldn't help but think about your handsome neighbor. You found it odd that he didn't ask you where you were from, but you were thankful he didn't pry, as you didn't know if you were ready to open that sad can of worms to a complete stranger just yet. Besides, he probably saw your Delaware license plate.

You were exhausted from the drive, unloading, and paint venture, so you decided to take it easy that night. You ordered a pizza and practically inhaled it before taking a shower and passing out on your unmade mattress.

That night, you fell asleep with a smile on your face. Your new life was taking off. Green eyes were the last thing on your mind as you fell under sleep's spell.

•••

The sun woke you up in a rather blinding way. You were NOT a morning person, but you welcomed the new horizon. Dressing in what you dubbed paint gear - a pair of holey, old jeans and a large, sun-faded Led Zeppelin shirt - you decided to get started on painting the living room.

You gathered the paint and supplies, but you realized you didn't have a roller tray to pour the paint into.

"Dammit," you mumbled to yourself. You rummaged through some boxes in hopes of finding something else that would do the job with no luck. You really didn't feel like going all the way out to the paint store again; it was Sunday, so a lot of people were probably out-and-about and after looking at a thousand miles of traffic for the last two days, you didn't want to see any more for a little while.

So, what the hell were you going to do? It's not like you knew anyone you could ask. Wait...

Dean.

Dean seemed like a handyman who would have a roller tray lying around somewhere, but the thought made you nervous. You didn't want him to think you were needy or anything since he helped you yesterday. Then again, Dean did say that whenever you needed something that you could go to him.

With that, your decision had been made. You walked outside and towards Dean's house. It was a little bit bigger than yours, but not by much, and its brilliant, starch white siding contrasted off your red, making it seem even more white.

You quietly walked up the cozy front porch, looking over the cushioned chairs. You could imagine Dean sitting there, enjoying the sunrise with a hot cup of coffee. The longer you thought about that, the more you realized how early it was. It was eight in the morning, a God damned sin. What if Dean was sleeping?

You quickly turned around before you knocked on the door. It was way too early to ask Dean for a favor. He would probably think you were annoying or creepy.

"Y/N?"

You froze and slowly turned around to meet a robed Dean with a serious case of bedhead, and if that wasn't the most adorable thing you've ever seen. "Hey," you said shyly.

"Nice shirt. Is there anything you need?" Dean smiled.

"Uh, yeah," you looked down at the ground, feeling foolish for being caught chickening out of knocking on the man's door. "I was about to paint my living room but I don't have a roller tray, so I was wondering if m-maybe you had one?"

Dean drew his eyebrows together, smile fading from his lips into a look of concentration. It made you nervous, so you spiraled into a rant.

"I'm sorry to bother you so early in the morning. That's why I turned around, figured I'd just go to the store, but then you came out here and now I feel bad because you obviously just woke up, and I know you said to come to you if I needed help with anything, but you just helped me yesterday, so I probably seem needy, and-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Y/N," Dean stepped further out of his doorway and held up his hands in attempt to make you stop. "Breathe, calm down. You're not bothering me at all. I was just thinking and realized that I have a roller tray thingy in the garage you can use."

"Really? God, thank you. I didn't wanna run back into town," you sighed in relief.

Dean chuckled. "It's no problem. I know you'd do the same for me."

"And how do you know that?" You smiled and placed your hands in your back jeans pockets. "I could be an asshole or a serial killer for all you know."

Dean leaned his head back to rest on door frame and bellowed out a laugh. "Touché, but I seriously doubt that."

For a moment, you both just stood there and smiled fondly at each other, which eventually became a bit awkward. Thankfully, Dean broke the silence.

"Do you wanna come in? I'll go grab the tray and get dressed so we can get started."

"We?"

"Is there an echo out here? Figured you could use a hand. Help get the job done quicker."

"You really don't have to. It's Sunday and you probably have plans or something."

"I wouldn't have offered if I had plans, right?"

"I guess not," you said sheepishly. You felt like an idiot for not putting two-and-two together, but Dean didn't seem to mind.

"It's settled then," he said and gestured for you to enter his home. "C'mon in."

You climbed the steps and walked through the door. You were equally excited and nervous to see the inside of Dean's place; you could tell a lot about a person from their home. Stepping inside, you noticed that it smelled faintly of coffee and honeysuckle. The house led into a yellow-painted, open hallway with beautiful, American cherry wood flooring and staircase.

Dean closed the door behind you. "Over there's the living room," he gestured toward the entryway on the left.

The room was painted sky blue with rustic walnut wood furnishings and beige seating. Wispy, white curtains covered the windows, allowing the perfect amount of sunlight to filter through and create a warm glow over the space. There was a large TV hanging over the mantle of the matching wood fireplace. From what you could see, there was also a bookcase lining the wall opposite the windows filled with what looked like a healthy collection of books, vinyls, CDs, DVDs, and framed family photos.

"Kitchen," he waved to the right entryway.

The kitchen was a bright green color with slate gray, granite counter tops, white cabinetry, and new appliances. Dean probably uses it a lot considering how updated the space looks.

"You have a lovely home, Dean."

"And here I thought you said you were an asshole," Dean snickered.

"Shut up," you blushed and chuckled.

"Alright, I'm gonna go look for the tray. Make yourself at home. There's fresh coffee in the pot if you want any," he said as we walked into the kitchen. You assumed there was a way to get to the garage from there.

A part of you felt like you were intruding a bit, but your curiosity got the better of you. You wandered into the living room to inspect the contents of the bookcase.

Before you moved to Kansas, you were an English adjunct at your local community college, so you would consider yourself pretty well read, and you were honestly surprised by Dean's book collection: Vonnegut, Steinbeck, Emerson, Chopin, Lovecraft.

Moving on to the vinyls and CDs, you were pleased when you saw an abundance of Aerosmith, Zeppelin, CCR, RHCP, as well as some Johnny Cash and Hank Williams. Dean pretty much had your exact same music taste, it was almost freaky.

Onto DVDs, there was a box set of Star Trek, all of the Star Wars episodes, every movie Bill Murray was ever in, Die Hard, and a couple seasons of Dr. Sexy M.D. You couldn't help the smile that crept up on your face. Dean was such a nerd, then again, so were you. Not developing a crush on this man was going to prove difficult. He probably had a girlfriend. That's usually how the story went.

Your eyes swept over the family photos. There were pictures of a young Dean with a lanky, shaggy-haired kid, a beautiful blonde, a gruff old man and brunette woman, but the last picture you really caught your eyes and your heart sank. It was a more recent picture of Dean and a redheaded woman. They were sitting together on a wood bench dressed in medieval costumes, Dean in chain mail and the woman in a royal getup kissing his cheek, her crown placed on his head.

Definitely the girlfriend. Shit...

"Yahtzee!" Dean exclaimed and held three roller trays up in victory. Startled, you spun to face him. Your heart was beating a mile a minute; you probably looked like a creep. He placed them on the couch and threw a "back in a jiff" behind his shoulder as he ran upstairs to get changed. You breathed a sigh of relief.

You wanted to know what the rest of Dean's place looked like, but you didn't know how to broach the subject without sounding like a weirdo.

Dean came bouncing down the steps wearing an old Foghat shirt, paint-splattered, holey jeans and a pair of dirty boots to match. "Ready, cap'n," he gave a mock salute.

"Let's go, Kirk."

You didn't see it, but Dean smiled as he walked behind you and you both went out the door.

•••

"So, why Kansas?" Dean asked halfway through painting your living room. The question caught you off guard. After a silence, he continued. "Sorry, I just saw your Delaware plate and was curious. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," he mumbled, dipping his roller back in the tray. You dipped your roller back into the paint, too, and decided you might as well get it over with. You knew that this was going to be a question people were going to ask. Moving from the East Coast to the Midwest sounded odd since most people did the opposite. Nonetheless, you explained it (vaguely) to Dean.

"No, no, it's fine. I needed a change," you painted a 'V' shape on the wall as you continued. "I-I just couldn't stay there anymore."

Dean could tell it was a tender subject by your unwillingness to elaborate. He nodded his head in understanding. "Yeah, I get that. Sometimes, I wished I could get outta here, but I knew I was too chickenshit to do it."

"So, you've been in Kansas all your life?"

"Yup, born 'n' raised," he smiled with a bit of pride. "But it got rough at times, and honestly, all I wanted to do was leave. Obviously, I didn't."

"Thank God," you teased and brushed your roller against his. "Otherwise, I'd be shit-out-of-luck with this whole moving thing." He smiled at you in response.

"My little brother, Sammy, moved out to California to go to Stanford though, so at least one of the Winchesters has expanded their horizons."

Winchester. Dean Winchester. The name suited him well. You assumed that long-limned kid Dean had pictures of and with on his bookcase was Sam. You didn't ask him about the reasons why he wanted to leave, just as he respected your decision to keep yours to yourself.

"California? Damn," you replied and kept painting. "This is the farthest west I've ever been."

"Seriously?"

"Mhm."

"You know, I've never seen a beach."

You stopped painting and looked at him. "You what?!"

"I know, I know," he smiled and stopped painting to look at you. "It's a fucking tragedy."

"You should remedy that someday."

"Yeah. I've always wanted to go to Ocean City, Maryland. You ever been there?"

"Dude, I lived like 45 minutes away from OC. I know that place like the back of my hand."

"Well, maybe you should take me someday." He gave you a big, lopsided grin, which caused your heart to flutter. You would love to take Dean to the beach. You briefly imagined what he would look like with sand in his hair and the smell of sea salt on his skin, the taste... but you didn't know if you could face home again just yet.

You and Dean finished painting the rest of the living room. It was a rich, teal color; if you recalled correctly, it was called "mermaid harbor" or something else overly-poetic.

"Looks good," he stated. You both stood back to admire your work. Slowly but surely, this house would feel more you.

Dean turned to you and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, leaving a teal streak behind. You tried and failed to hold in the giggles that forced themselves up from your throat.

"What?" He drew his eyebrows together, confused by your sudden outburst. You grabbed a rag from the kitchen counter and brought it to his face.

"I made a mess, didn't I?" He laughed at himself.

You nodded and brought your left hand up to his chin to hold his head steady as you wiped his brow clean of mermaid harbor. Only halfway through cleaning him did you register the fact that you were standing incredibly close to him, holding his face, no less. You met his eyes, and you could see a hint of something you couldn't quite place your finger on in those candy apple greens. He smelled of Irish soap with a little bit of honeysuckle like his home. You briefly dropped your eyes to his plush lips and watched intently as he swept his tongue across them. Before you could do anything stupid like kiss him, you stepped away and threw the rag back onto the counter.

"There," you breathed.

"Thanks, Y/N," he said with a low, tender voice.

"Welcome... Let's do the kitchen and call it day."

"Alright."

You could hear a little twinge of disappointment in Dean's response, almost as if he wanted to kiss you, but that couldn't be. You were just some jobless, small town girl from Delaware who ran away from her problems back home, dressed in ratty painting clothes. Besides, he had a girlfriend, and what could he have possibly seen in you? He barely even knew you! Yet, you barely knew him and there you were, mermaid harboring a big, fat crush on him.

You both painted the kitchen golden yellow without saying another word.

•••

By the time the kitchen was finished, it was around 3pm. Your stomach growled in protest as you were cleaning the painting supplies up.

"I heard that," Dean proclaimed. He walked to the empty fridge and opened it. "Looks like someone hasn't gone grocery shopping yet."

"Yeah, I know, I suck," you said and leaned against the counter.

Dean closed the fridge and leaned against the counter with you so you were side-by-side. "You know, I know this great place we can grab some grub," he said and bumped your hip. "Great burgers, and it's within walking distance."

You looked over at him and he winked. "There's a restaurant that close to here?"

"Yep, s'called Winchesters, and it's less than fifty yards away."

"I hope it's not too busy," you joked once you realized he was talking about his place.

"I can assure you it's not. I booked the whole place so we could have it all to ourselves."

"A man after my own heart." After you said that, your mind briefly flashed to the picture of Dean and the redheaded woman that sat on his bookcase. _He's taken. Don't get your hopes up_ , you reminded yourself. You tried not to notice the way your chest tightened a little bit at the thought. "You mind if I take a shower first? I feel like a walking, talking paint swatch."

"Sure thing, but don't keep me waiting long. Gotta make sure they hold our reservation, plus I'm getting hungry. You wouldn't like me when I'm hungry."

You laughed before walking him to the door to show him out. "Hold your horses, Ferrigno. I'll be there in two shakes."

"It's a date," he said and winked as he ducked out onto your porch.

You closed the door and let the weight of those words sink in. A date. Did Dean forget that he had a girlfriend? Maybe you read too far into things; saying "it's a date" is just a figure of speech. Your stomach rumbled again, and you pushed down thoughts of the mystery redhead as you started your shower.

•••

After you took a frankly embarrassing amount of time deciding on what to wear, you settled on something casual: a plain black v-neck, bluejeans, and taupe boots. If you would've dressed up, it would've made you look too hopeful for something more with Dean. Yoga pants, though slightly tempting, were too laid-back, even if they did make your ass look phenomenal.

One last look in the mirror and a pinch to your cheeks later, you walked over to Dean's and knocked on his door, which he opened almost immediately. The smile on his face blinded you. He was too beautiful for words.  _Good luck, Shakespeare_ , you thought smugly to yourself.

"Hey," he said and eyed you over and looked at himself in mock self-consciousness. "Well, I'm not gonna change."

You trailed your eyes down his body only to notice you two wore almost the exact same thing. You lifted his eyes back to his face, and after a few moments of staring at each other, you both exploded with laughter. "I know how to settle this."

"Oh?" He gestured you inside and shut the door behind you.

"Whoever is younger has to change." You honestly couldn't tell how old Dean was by his looks. He looked under thirty, but couldn't guess much else from there.

"We'll both say our age at the same time, deal?"

You nodded.

"Okay, one... two... three!"

"Twenty-six!"

"Twenty-five!"

Dean rose his fist in the air in victory.

"Oh, shut up!"

"Fair's fair, sweetheart," your heart skipped a beat at the nickname. "You gotta change."

"You can't be serious," you deadpanned.

"As a heart attack," he said and placed his hand over his heart. "This joint's got a real strict dress-code."

"Oh my God, you  _are_ serious."

"I gotta watch the burgers, so just go up to my room and pick out a shirt," he waved toward the steps as he walked back into the kitchen. Did he actually want you to go  _upstairs_ to  _his room_ and put on one of  _his shirts_ _?!_ Your feet felt bolted to the floor. "Last door on the left."

You snapped yourself out of it and slowly ascended the stairs. The steps squeaked under your weight, but you didn't mind. It gave the house character. The upstairs hallway was painted the same color as downstairs and had two doors on both sides. From what you could see the first door on the right was a guest room decorated in neutrals. The room across from it on the left was more lived in and personalized. A Stanford flag was tacked to the wall above a desk and a few books were scattered on it. You remembered Dean's mention of his brother, Sam, and how he'd moved out to California. That must've been his room.

What looked like high school senior portraits hung between the two rooms on the left. The same kid you saw in the pictures from downstairs on the bookcase in a cap-and-gown on the left, and a green-eyed boy on the ri-  _holy shit..._ _that's Dean!_ Part of you wanted to take the picture from the wall, waltz downstairs with it and tease him to no end about how cute he looked, but you got a grip on yourself. Maybe for another time. The last door on the right was a spacious, white and vintage-styled bathroom. That left you with the last door on the left, Dean's room. You pushed the door the rest of the way open and took in the space with careful admiration.

Dean's room was an embodiment of the man himself. There were a few classic rock and car posters plastered on the navy blue walls, a guitar in the corner that had you sweating just thinking about him clasping the instrument in his hands or maybe even playing together. There was a large king-sized bed in the middle of the far wall with inviting, unmade beige bedding. Naturally, a few articles of clothing were scattered along the floor. You would've been somewhat concerned if there weren't, as it signaled that this God of a man was, in fact, actually human. You smiled at the space.

You walked over to the closet and examined your choices. It almost looked like your own wardrobe, at least t-shirt wise. You decided on a purple Hendrix tee. As much as you tried to resist for your own sanity's sake, you couldn't help but inhale the scent the shirt was emitting. It smelled like Gain, the faint honeysuckle aroma that permeated all of Dean's house, and something inexplicably and indescribably Dean. You abandoned your shirt on his bed, which totally wasn't intentional just so your smell could linger on his sheets.

You made your way downstairs and into the kitchen to join Dean, who was placing the cheeseburgers onto the table set for two. When he caught sight of you, he smiled.

"Nice choice," he nodded at your, or rather his, shirt. "Took you long enough though. Were you casin' the place?"

"Wha- ? No, I was-"

"Relax, Y/N," he said as he turned to the fridge to retrieve two beers. "I'm just screwin' with you."

You both sat down at the table across from each other, and he looked at you expectantly.

"Do you say grace or anything?"

"Do I look like I'm the type to say grace?" You chuckled.

"Good, cuz I'm not either."

"I got one," you clasped your hands together and bowed your head. "Rubba-dub-dub, thanks for the grub."

"Did you just-"

"Yeah, I did. Don't have a cow, man. Now let's dig in."

 •••

Well, Dean was right, "Winchester's" really did have good burgers. At first, you ate in silence. Both of you moaned around mouthfuls of them, and if you were completely honest, it might've just been the sexist thing you'd ever heard. After all, Dean  _was_ the sexist thing you'd ever seen, so it made sense.

After the burgers were gone, you and Dean somehow got talking about baseball. You'd gotten into a mini argument with him because he teased you about how Jeremy Guthrie, an ex-pitcher from the Baltimore Orioles (your favorite team) was now on his team, the Kansas City Royals.

Dean was so easy to talk to, it was comforting and also scary. Normally, you never made friends this quickly. In fact, you didn't have any friends at all. Not anymore. Perhaps it was Dean's kindness; he'd helped you so much with moving things into your new home and painting it and never asked for a thing in return. He let you into his home, cooked for you. You weren't used to that sort of hospitality.

By the time you two finished talking, you learned that Dean's "Baby" was his prized 1967 Chevrolet Impala, which was in the garage and he promised you he'd take you for a ride in it someday.

You also learned that Dean was a mechanic and worked down at Singer's Salvage yard a few miles from there. His psuedo-Uncle Bobby owned the establishment and gave him the job as a high schooler.

You told Dean about how you were an adjunct English professor at a community college back in Delaware, and that you didn't have a job set up there in Kansas yet. But you were in no rush. After what happened back home,  _no_ , back in Delaware, secured you financially, which you didn't tell Dean about. Dean avoided talking about his family, too, specifically his parents. You knew all about that.

After two beers each, you both worked together to wash the dishes, though he insisted you didn't because you were the guest. He washed and you dried without saying a word. The only noises between you were the metallic sounds of cutlery and plates being knocked together and the two of you humming a Tom Petty song. It felt domestic and natural, and you couldn't have brought yourself to care how weird that was considering you'd only known the man for two days.

After the dishes were done, you and Dean walked into the living room. He suggested you put on a record. As you made your way to the bookcase and scanned the selection, you didn't notice him moving closer behind you.

You grabbed Van Morrison's  _Moondance_ and spun around, directly into him.

"Jesus!" You exclaimed. "You should wear a bell."

"Mhm," Dean agreed.

You looked into each other's eyes then, the record clutched tightly in your grasp. You'd never been that close to him, face-to-face. It was overwhelming, terrifying, and exciting all at the same time. He looked at you with a tenderness you'd never experienced before. The emerald of his eyes softened and he gave you a small smile.

"Y/N," he whispered before he slowly leaned into you and crooked his head to the right. Holy shit, he was going to kiss you. Honestly, you were dying to know what his lips would feel like against your own, but then you remembered something.

You felt that picture of Dean and the mystery redheaded woman staring daggers into the back of your head from the bookcase. Dean had a girlfriend. Dean was about to kiss you. Dean was about to cheat on his girlfriend.

"Stop," you said before he got any closer. He looked at you with a mixture of hurt and confusion. He waited expectantly for you to explain. Rage bubbled up inside of you, and you couldn't help it. You had a zero tolerance policy on cheaters. It wouldn't have been fair to you or to the redhead.

"I can't believe you, Dean," you continued and placed the record down. You spoke between clenched teeth. "This isn't right, and you know  _exactly_ what I'm talking about."

"Wha-" Dean furrowed his brow.

Before you had the chance to yell, you stormed out of his house and back over to yours. How could you have been so stupid? You knew he had a girlfriend yesterday when you saw that picture, but you indulged in your crush anyway. Of course the guy you liked had someone else, and of course he had the tragic flaw of infidelity. No man who looked like that could be 100% perfect. That wasn't how the universe worked, at least not for you.

Instead of dwelling on Dean, you kept yourself busy. You stayed up all night painting the rest of your house. You painted the second bedroom, which served the purpose as your office instead, chocolate brown to compliment the rich wood of your large desk. It was your father's... The half-bath/laundry room was painted orange. It reminded you of the Orioles and therefore also reminded you of your father... Your bedroom was painted red. It was your favorite color, and your decor was going to be red, white, and blue once you got everything squared away. Your father used to defend those colors...

You blinked back tears that were fighting to spill over. Fuck, you promised yourself you wouldn't do this. That was the whole point of moving to Kansas. It wasn't necessarily to forget because you could never forget, it was to escape; increase the distance, decrease the pain. Dean could've been the perfect distraction. He could've been  _more_ than a distraction, but that got shot to hell once you saw that damn picture.

Thankfully exhausted from painting all day, you were able to fall into a dreamless sleep.

•••

The rest of the week flew by. You were busy getting everything settled.

You went grocery shopping Monday, changed your ID and license plate at the DMV on Tuesday, got the cable and Internet set up on Wednesday, did yard work on Thursday, met your new primary physician on Friday, and switched banks on Saturday. You were so busy, you almost forgot that you didn't hear from Dean for the whole week. Almost.

You caught glances out your window of him in the yard and heard the deep purr of his beloved Impala once in a while, but you didn't allow yourself to think about him for too long. It angered and frustrated you that Dean wasn't single, especially after seeing an old, yellow Volkswagen beetle in the driveway and the mystery redheaded woman who it belonged to, but  _c'est la vie_. The only thing you could've done was move on. It wasn't like you haven't done that before. So, on that Sunday, you decided to explore Lawrence, particularly Main Street. You parked on the west side and figured you'd walk the length of it.

Main Street was considered part of the historical district downtown. Most of the buildings were red-bricked with hand-painted windows. The light posts that lined the street looked like lanterns and we're placed between beautiful cherry blossom trees. It was mid-April, so they were in full bloom and cast a warm, pink-ish glow that reflected of the glass of the small, locally-owned businesses. The fallen petals looked like confetti littering the street.

You walked the cobblestone sidewalk and looked into the shops as you went by. The calming aroma of cherry blossoms flooded your senses. From what you could see as you began your walk, there was an antique store, a jeweler, a lawyer's office, and a computer repair place... which had a very distinct, yellow Volkswagen parked in front of it.

 _Figures_ , you thought. Just when you all but forced the entire Dean situation out of your mind, that stupid beetle trudged it all back up. The shop - mockingly named "The Computer Queen" - was directly across from you on the other side of the street. What made matters worse was Dean's girlfriend stepping out of the place to her car. You knew she probably had no idea who you were, but just to get away from thoughts of Dean and the gnawing frustration that always followed, you bolted into the nearest shop.

It was a bookstore.

The buidling was small and practically overflowed with books; the smell of the pages permeated the air. From what you could tell, most of them were old and used. The books sat on the shelves in a haphazard way that somehow made them seem orderly. The mahogany shelves reached the ceiling and the only open sitting room were the teal, red, and gold beanbag chairs that sat in front of the window that looked out over Main Street. The window was lined with white Christmas lights, and you could see the calligraphy-styled paint that faced the outside - though backwards to you as you were inside - spelled out "Icarus Books".

You walked along the mix-matched Persian-carpeted floor in wonder. It'd been so long since you'd been in a bookstore like that and you wanted to savor every moment of it. It proved a lovely distraction to why you entered the shop in the first place.

As you rounded one aisle to enter another, you saw a long, dark-haired female figure crouched down to the lowest shelf putting books away. The woman wore a black tank-top and low-slung jeans considering you could read the tattoo she had across her lower back that read "Jesse Forever" in script.

"Hello?" You asked, which startled the woman.

"Shit!" She said and spun up and around to stand at eye-level with you. "You might want to watch the sneaking up on people thing even if it's a psychic you're doing it to."

The woman appeared to be in her 40s, and she flashed you a wide, genuine smile and extended her hand to you. You took it and gave it a firm shake and reciprocated a smile as she continued.

"Hello, I'm Pamela Barnes and I co-own Icarus. What can I do for you today?"

"Y/N," you responded. "I'm just looking around. Places like this are one of my weak spots."

"I know exactly what you mean," Pam chuckled and then gave you a curious look as if she were reading something that was written on your face. Her expression turned serious and honest then as she placed her hand on your shoulder. "Your father misses you, too, Y/N, and he wants you to know that he's not mad at you for selling the house and moving because no matter what, he loves you."

You stared at her with wide eyes. How could she have possibly known about that? She did say psychic, but you didn't take her seriously until that moment. Tears brimmed your eyes, but you swallowed the lump in your throat and held them back. The only response you could muster was a somber nod.

"Sorry about that," Pam said. "I can usually control it better than that and bite my tongue, but he and I both knew you needed to hear that."

"N-No, it's... it's fine," you shook your head and stared at her combat boots. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," she smiled. "So, I get that you're new to the area. How are you liking it so far?"

Subject change. This was good. You delved into a whole conversation about your first week in Kansas. Somehow, you both migrated over to the beanbags up front and we're comfortably seated in them as you spoke to one another. You were somewhat self-conscious about her "seeing" anything about Dean or the way you felt about him, but Pam seemed nice and considerate enough not to mention it unless you brought it up.

Pam talked about Lazarus and how she always had one dream in life: to own a bookstore. That dream became a reality fifteen years prior after she got her degree from Kansas University in business. Turns out you and Pam had very similar tastes in the arts. Halfway through your conversation about whether Jackson Pollock truly was an artist, another woman walked through the door who looked around Pam's age. The woman had the most bitchin' hair you'd ever seen: a gelled and spikey pixie cut with razored bangs of all different hues of red. She mastered the smokey eye and wore heavy Victorian gothic-styled jewelry with a black corsett and electric blue dress.

"Susan!" Pamela exclaimed and motioned her over to join you. "I'd like you to meet Y/N. She just moved here from Delaware."

"No sales tax," Susan smiled. "That's killer."

Talking with Pam loosened you up a bit, and you felt incredibly comfortable within the paper-lined walls of Lazarus Books.

"Right?! Sales tax is false advertising and just an all-around sin."

"Ben Franklin was a fucking crook!" Susan waved her fist in the air and yelled, which caused you and Pam to double over in laughter.

After the chuckles subsided, Pam spoke up. "Susan, can I talk with you for a second?"

One of the store's five cats jumped from Pam's lap and into yours as she stood to talk to Susan. Less than five minutes later, Pam and Susan returned with huge smiles on their faces. It made you a bit nervous, but in a good way.

"Y/N, how would you like to work here?" Susan asked.

Your eyes bugged out of your head. You weren't expecting that at all. Before you answered, Pam cut in.

"We could use an extra set of hands around here. Susan co-owns this place with me and also works at a publishing company a few towns over, so I find myself shorthanded at times."

"I don't know anything about business though," you admitted sheepishly.

"So?! You have a degree in English, for Christ's sake! You're perfectly qualified," Pam retorted.

You looked back-and-forth between the two women. It boggled your mind that a job - a dream job, no less - had just been offered to you as if it fell from the sky, which was ironic considering the name of the shop.

"I'd love to work here! Thank you both so much," you stood and hugged them.

"Great! Why don't you come in on Wednesday and we'll get you started," Susan said.

"Sounds good. I'll see y'all then!"

Just before you reached the door, Pam piped up. "Oh, and Y/N? Dean is single. Charlie loves the ladies," she affirmed with a wink.

You raised your fist in the air like Judd Nelson as you walked out the door. The fact that you got a new job  _and_ learned that Dean was on the market put a huge pep-in-your-step as you walked back to your car.

•••

You thought about what Pam said about your dad on the short ride home. She had to be the real deal because there was no way in hell she could've possibly known about you or your life in Delaware. Your dad wasn't mad at you for moving. That had been your biggest worry upon deciding to uproot your life after his untimely death. What Pam said put that worry to rest.

As you pulled into your driveway, you noticed the lights in Dean's place were on. You couldn't stop smiling, not after finding out your insanely perfect,  _single_ neighbor who obviously wanted to kiss you a week ago was in fact single. Although you had only just met Pam, you believed her. She seemed trustworthy enough and she knew the area, which also meant she knew the people. If she insisted that Dean was single and Charlie was a lesbian, then you'd take her word for it.

Dean probably thought you were either 1) a mess or 2) stupid for the way you acted the week before. He didn't even try to talk to you during that entire time. Yup, he was probably mad or upset with you, but you wouldn't stand for that. You wanted to apologize to him, the only question was how?

Just then, you had a brilliant idea.

You grabbed your old guitar and went out to your deck, which gave you the perfect view of what you knew was Dean's living room and bedroom windows.


End file.
